


high levels of density

by orphan_account



Category: The Boyz (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:22:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14995757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Wait, so just to clarify,” Younghoon says, squinting, “are you and Chanhee like… a thing?”Changmin debates for a second if he should act dumb, ask what Younghoon means by thing, if Younghoon means they’re friends or bros or a double-decker pizza sandwich with extra mozzarella, but Younghoon knows him too well for that to work.“I don’t know,” Changmin shrugs. “Haven’t bothered to check. Probably not.”(Changmin and Chanhee are in a relationship. Changmin just has zero idea.)





	high levels of density

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sydnaynay (bandable)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandable/gifts).



> syd, happy early birthday!! im going to be swamped july so uhhh yeah have this a month early, i hope you like it and i hope it brings a smile to your face dalkjfklsa. thanks for being my friend.

“Wait, so just to clarify,” Younghoon says, squinting, “are you and Chanhee like… a thing?”

Changmin debates for a second if he should act dumb, ask what Younghoon means by _thing_ , if Younghoon means they’re friends or bros or a double-decker pizza sandwich with extra mozzarella, but Younghoon knows him too well for that to work.

“I don’t know,” Changmin shrugs. “Haven’t bothered to check. Probably not.”

“Well,” Younghoon says, exasperated, “maybe you should check, then?”

“Nah, but communication’s overrated, you know?” Changmin says, and _now_ he’s just saying stuff to irritate Younghoon.

The two of them are in the local coffee shop, pretending to do homework. Changmin has no idea how they got on this topic, but now that they are, neither of them are backing down. Wait— no, he does. Younghoon had been lamenting about what he should get his girlfriend for Christmas, and Changmin had been laughing at his friend’s distress. Mistake, because now the tables have been turned, although at least Changmin doesn’t have the issue of what to give Chanhee as a present.

“ _Is_ it.”

“Yeah,” Changmin says, fake-nonchalant. “It’s like the relationship version of Schrodinger’s cat. Just don’t open the box, and you don’t have to see a dead animal.”

“See, but,” Younghoon says, “that’s a new thing. A New thing, the science paradoxes. You’re fighting me with words Chanhee would say.”

Changmin opens his mouth, shuts it. Younghoon sits back and crosses his arms, face smug, and Changmin can’t argue against it. They both know he’s won. So Changmin just mumbles, “shut up,” which is the best thing he’s got right now, and Younghoon takes victor’s pity on him and holds his bag of chips out.

But Changmin concedes (although he won’t ever admit it). Younghoon’s got a point. Changmin and Chanhee are kind of— weird.

They’re not best friends. That’s not quite it. Chanhee’s — well, Changmin doesn’t know— but Chanhee is Changmin’s favorite. Changmin likes to ignore what that means and carry on.

It doesn’t help that their nicknames rhyme. “Oh, look, it’s New and Q,” has been heard from _multiple_ people’s mouths. Most likely Eric’s mouth, because Eric appreciates that kind of thing, rhymes and stuff. Changmin kind of wishes he still had that kind of outlook at the world. But he’s a cynical junior with all the idealism beat out of him by physics.

The nickname thing is nonsensical at best. Chanhee is New because he moved to Creker halfway through freshman year, which sort of makes sense. Changmin is Q because of this one argument he and Younghoon had back in _middle school_ over whether Q is actually an important part of the alphabet, which Changmin won, but got stuck with that nickname as a result.

That one defies logic.

But anyway, Chanhee is the sort of person Changmin wishes he could be sometimes, juggling two part-time jobs while being a straight-A AP student and the speed demon of math team, while Changmin is — average. He takes one honors class, the rest all the normal track, and spends the rest of the time either listening to music, dancing, or doing nothing.

But Chanhee never makes him feel bad about it.

“I mean, that’s _cool_ ,” Chanhee says, when Changmin brings it up. “You’re actually enjoying life and shit.”

“Yeah, but…” Changmin says. “You’re like, you know. Being the golden child. Living up to all the standards.”

Chanhee rolls his eyes. “You make it sound fun.”

“But isn’t that what you aspire to be in 2018, permanent eyebags and always being stressed out and looking like you’re going to fucking murder everyone else—”

“I’m going to fucking murder _you_ ,” Chanhee says, shoving his shoulder. He sighs. “Did your parents yell at you last night again or something?”

Changmin purses his lips and looks away, which tells Chanhee everything he needs to know. And then, although Changmin is the one who’s usually clinging onto everyone else, Chanhee takes his hand and squeezes it, which tells Changmin everything _he_ needs to know: _it’s okay not to be the way everyone else is, I like you the way you are._

This is what makes them weird. Not the strange nicknames, not their opposing high school circles. Stuff like this, moments where they are probably _not just friends_.

The two of them both know that anything beyond banter is dangerous territory. Words are clumsy weapons, easily misfired. It’s easier just not to use them.

Which means they don’t ever talk about what they are, which Changmin is fine with. One, they’re both guys, which, while Changmin doesn’t have an issue with, is unconventional. Moreover, it’s _Chanhee_ , who Changmin doesn’t believe would ever really like him like that, not in a million years.

So Changmin’s okay with the warm feeling in his chest that unfortunately sometimes sparks out into an all-out flame, he’s okay with stealing sentences that Chanhee says that probably don’t mean anything.

He’s okay.

\---

The first slip-up occurs over text.

It’s actually when Chanhee is talking about Schrodinger’s cat, near 2AM, Changmin pretending to do his homework but really waiting for the notification that Chanhee’s next text has sent.

And Chanhee types, _shit, it’s 2am_

Changmin doesn’t tell Chanhee that on top of that, he still hasn’t finished his math worksheet. Chanhee would _really_ go off then.

So the two of them have this thing, where they call each other by their nicknames when they say greetings or farewells, which could be a symptom of being an item, but Changmin just considers it an appreciation of language.

Changmin sends, _lmao, oops._

And then, _fine. gn, new_

And this is when Chanhee is supposed to type back, _gn, q_. Which he does. Except not really. What he really types back is, _good night, qt_.

Which, first off, doesn’t rhyme. Which, second off, when Changmin digests it, makes him drop his phone on his desk. He thinks: _it’s a typo, it’s a joke, it’s 2AM and Chanhee’s (usually admirable) brain is not working properly._

And after that mishap, neither is his own, so he fills in random numbers for the rest of the math worksheet and turns in for the night. His teacher only checks that it’s finished, anyway, and he thinks he’s got the concept down well enough to score at least an eighty on the test.

The next day, Chanhee texts him a picture of a squirrel running across the parking lot with a plastic-baggy sandwich in its mouth, and everything is normal.

\---

Most of the time, it’s not things like that, though.

Which is a relief, because Changmin would’ve probably gotten sent to the hospital for early heart failure if said thing was part of a regular pattern, but also a disappointment, for reasons Changmin would rather not acknowledge.

Most of the time, it’s purely platonic.

“Hey, Changmin!” Kevin says, waving from where he’s closest to the door. “We’re finishing up, as soon as Eric figures this problem out—”

“I don’t understand,” Eric half-mumbles, half-wails, head buried in the worksheet, “ _what_ kind of specialty mini M&M pack is this girl buying?”

Felix peers over. “I think it’s a probability question?”

Kevin bites his lip to hide his smile; Chanhee doesn’t even have time to disguise his snort. Felix is pretty bad at math, but without him present, both Eric and this other guy, Seo Changbin, would probably boycott the club, so the coach lets him stay.

Their math team is only stereotypical on the surface. Eric might be a genius, but he frequently lacks common sense, and Kevin might be good at everything, but he’s powered by Beyonce and and bad memes. Plus, they study a lot outside. Changmin has only been present for Chanhee’s study sessions, but it involves a lot of sighing, aggressive textbook flipping, and suffering expressions.

Chanhee slings his backpack over his shoulder and gets up from his desk. “See you guys,” he says, waving, walking over to the door.

Both he and Changmin miss Eric’s eyebrow wiggling, which is probably because it looks less like eyebrow wiggling and more like he’s having the facial equivalent to a glitch.

Changmin isn’t sweaty today, fortunately. Dance practices are Tuesdays and Thursdays, whereas math team meets up on Wednesdays. He’d just spent two hours in one of the practice rooms of the school, playing the piano.

“There was this guy sleeping under the piano the whole two hours I was there,” Changmin reports, and Chanhee laughs. “I’m serious. I’m playing, like, Chopin’s _Revolution_ , and he doesn’t wake up.”

“Jesus. What if he was dead?”

“You know, he probably was,” Changmin says thoughtfully, although it’s a joke, because the guy had rolled over a couple of times in sleep. “The day _I_ sleep through one of Chopin’s Etudes, it’s because I’m dead. I’ve been traumatized.”

“I’ve heard you complain a lot about Chopin, yeah.”

“Chopin does not understand the concept of me having only ten fingers,” Changmin says stiffly, “that asshole. He makes me sad. That school piano also makes me sad. Every key was out of tune.”

“You could always play the one in your home,” Chanhee suggests, and Changmin pretends to take this into consideration, although it’s not even an option.

If he plays the piano in his house, he’d have to go home, which means he can’t ride the bus with Chanhee.

The two of them don’t really share classes in common, and on other days Chanhee’s working at a coffee shop while Changmin dances and/or procrastinates on his homework. Sometimes they video-call over the weekend, or Changmin bikes over to his house, but bus Wednesdays will be pried out of his cold, Chopin-murdered hands.

“How was math team?” Changmin asks, once they’ve flashed their IDs at the driver and taken a seat in the back. (They’re not seniors, but the age hierarchy doesn’t apply to after-school buses.)

“Terrible. I mean, it’s ending soon, so…” Chanhee shrugs. “We’ve got regionals coming up, so the coaches are about to rip their hair out.”

“And this is why I’m not in that club.”

“No, you’re not in that club because you suck at math,” Chanhee says, and Changmin swings his backpack at him. “Kevin brought his guitar today, though, it was cool. You and him could start a band.”

“And you could sing in it...”

Chanhee shakes his head. He’s got a good voice, but he rarely uses it except on accident, when he gets too into whatever’s playing on the radio or his phone and his lip-syncing turns to singing along. “Not happening. But I could play, like, the abacus.”

Changmin chokes on surprised laughter. “The _abacus_ ,” he wheezes. Classic Chanhee. “Who needs a drummer when you’ve got an abacus-player?”

“I mean, it technically _is_ an instrument,” Chanhee says wryly.

Bus Wednesdays nice, the two of them going off on random tangents and Chanhee sharing his plastic bag of cold pizza. Changmin is aware that cold pizza, especially kept in a Ziploc bag, is kind of gross, but he doesn’t care; it’s edible. And Chanhee walks with Changmin to Changmin’s house, despite the fact their homes are opposite directions from the stop.

Which is something Changmin would argue Chanhee would do for anyone.

\---

Changmin’s been brave once over text, too, also at 3AM. After bus Wednesday.

There’s this giant group chat that’s— Changmin doesn’t even know what it’s for, some weird mishmash of math team and student council and dance team and — he doesn’t even know. There’s twelve of them in total and it’s called _The Boyz_.

Changmin _should_ have it muted, because it’s woken him up more than once at three o’clock in the morning, but he always forgets, because it’s so sporadically active.

Sometimes Changmin talks. Tonight is one of those times.

**Q:** I GOT NEWS!!!

Two minutes later, he gets a response.

**Juyeon:** what

Not the enthusiastic response he was looking for, but Changmin takes it, and sends his image, a picture of a couch with multiple Chanhees painstakingly edited onto it. It’s a good joke. Changmin will argue that it’s a good joke.

Sunwoo disagrees. _Who’s admin. Kick changmin out_

**Juyeon:** jacob and sangyeon, g luck lol

**Sunwoo:** Fuck, jacob’s too nice and sangyeon would like the dad joke.

Changmin grins, but the smile slips off his face at Juyeon’s next words: _but q how many pictures of ur bf do you have saved on your phone for this to happen_

And instead of protesting that Chanhee isn’t his boyfriend, Changmin just sends back, _Some_. Changmin doesn’t really take pictures of himself, but he takes pictures of his friends— a quarter of his camera roll is probably just Younghoon with breads.

And then he freaks out, because holy shit, what did he do—

Changmin knows Chanhee saw the message, because when he clicks on the message _New_ is listed in the people who’ve read it. But Chanhee doesn’t comment on it, and Changmin doesn’t ask him about it, and it disappears into the void of happenings that could be passed off as mistakes or jokes.

\---

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Changmin bikes over to the nearby dance studio after school.

It’s not a known studio; the whole thing is rather unofficial. One of Changmin’s instructors has recommended him for this prestigious dance academy, and while Changmin admits he considered it for a minute, he eventually just took it as a compliment rather than anything else. Dance is something he loves, but he’s not sure if he wants to go that far for it.

At the end of some classes, though, Changmin really reconsiders everything. This is one of those classes. His entire body hurts, and he’s not sure if he can move.

“I can’t move,” he says, except it doesn’t come from his mouth, but from his friend’s.

Hyunjoon doesn’t go to Changmin’s school, but the rival one nearby, the one that, according to Chanhee, always beats them in math competitions. Changmin hates the school on Chanhee’s behalf, but he doesn’t hate Hyunjoon. It’s physically impossible to hate Hyunjoon, and also, Hyunjoon is a good dancer.

“I can’t, either,” Hyunjae comments, also on the floor.

Haknyeon, who’s putting on his sweatshirt a little bit away from where the three of them are sprawled out on the ground, says, “I can’t believe I have to be the voice of rationale here, where’s Sunwoo when you need him?”

Hyunjae rolls over. “Not here.”

Haknyeon sighs, walks over and attempts to peel Hyunjae off the ground. “Dude, please get up.”

Hyunjae groans. “The floor and I are bonded for life, sorry.”

Haknyeon kicks him in the ribs, and Hyunjae yelps and bolts upward. “Okay, _okay_.”

Eric bounds over, sporting the pastel-pink hair that he’d acquired from a lost bet and his boundless energy; the dance class hadn’t managed to tire him at all. “Do you wanna get food together?” he asks. “We have Friday off tomorrow.”

Changmin gets up, rejuvenated by the mention of food and the long weekend. “Sounds good to me.”

Hyunjoon unsticks himself from the floor and pats his hair down. Even gross and sweaty, Hyunjoon’s hair manages to retain its style— Changmin kind of envies it. “Is someone else paying? I’m broke.”

Eric immediately yells, “Not it! I’m broke also!”

“We’re _all_ broke,” Hyunjae grumbles. “We’re in high school.”

Despite the lack of money, the five of them set out of the dance room together with the full intent of going to eat. Juyeon’s usually here, but he’d fallen sick. He takes pictures of the ER, makes memes out of them, and sends them to the dance group chat.

“We’re going to The Plate, right?” Haknyeon asks, and Changmin nods. The Plate is on the plaza right across from the dance academy, and it happens to be where Chanhee works. His Thursday shift coincides with the current time. “Cool, can we get the friend discount like last time?”

“You mean the Q discount,” Hyunjae says, smile impish even in the dark. Changmin laughs awkwardly, says nothing, and sticks his hands in his pockets.

Sometimes Changmin heads over to The Plate after dance practice, if his homework doesn’t require a computer, and Chanhee will say hi, hand him water and some kind of appetizer so that he won’t get kicked out for loitering, and proceed to go about his business. Sometimes Changmin looks over because his homework is boring and Chanhee looks good in the restaurant uniform.

Changmin opens his messages and fires a text off to his mom: _will be back home at around 9 or 10-ish._

The five of them cram themselves into a booth, arguing over who has to squeeze in three, and Chanhee comes over, face carefully deadpan.

“What can I get for you today?” he asks.

(Changmin’s not kidding about the uniform thing. Chanhee looks good.)

Haknyeon rattles off his order quickly, because he’s probably the most decisive when it comes to food out of all of them, and Changmin just quietly taps on the thing he usually gets while Hyunjoon, Hyunjae, and Eric take forever flipping through the menu.

“Do we get a discount?” Eric asks, adapting his patented cute-confused-freshman look, the one that tears Changmin apart between headlocking him and buying him fifty stuffed animals.

“Don’t set fire to anything, and we’ll see,” Chanhee says, neutral. “Where’s Juyeon?”

“Sick,” Hyunjae tells him. “Appendix exploded.”

“That sucks, maybe I’ll send him flowers,” Chanhee says. His other part-time job is at a flower shop. “And get Kevin to write ‘ _get well soon, you asshole’_ in his word magic.”

“You mean his calligraphy?” Eric asks.

“I mean his word magic. That shit is not normal.”

Changmin laughs, because he laughs at everything, and Changmin misses the way Chanhee’s face softens into a smile when he turns around to go get their food.

The five of them eat and fire off far-fetched plans for the long weekend, Chanhee joining them when he gets his break, stealing a couple noodles out of Changmin’s bowl. It’s nice. Chanhee gives them a discount. And afterwards, Eric asks Chanhee if he can take over cleaning duty, because Eric is fucking weird, and Chanhee says yes, because it’d be fucking weird if he didn’t.

\---

One time, last summer, Changmin and Chanhee were leaving the restaurant when it started to pour.

“Well,” Chanhee says. “This sucks.”

Changmin is about to be disappointed before he registers something and says, “Actually, I’m going to cross something off my bucket list. Be right back.”

“What are you doing—”

But Changmin’s already ran out into the rain, laughing. His bucket list is a very unofficial thing, put together sometime in seventh grade and including stuff like _try every baskin robbins flavor_ and _kiss someone (???)._ It’s somewhere in the bottom of his drawer. He just remembers that dancing in the rain was somewhere on there.

It feels nice. The rain turns the sidewalk dark and blurs the world around him. It’s been overly hot the past couple of days, and the heat has finally broken. Water runs down his face, and he dances freestyle, uncaring about choreography or form.

And then he turns around and sees Chanhee just watching him, face like a clear sky. His expression makes something go off in Changmin’s chest, and maybe Changmin would’ve performed more, but instead he stops, suddenly aware about how crazy he looks.

Chanhee walks out into the rain also, soaked in a second. “You’re insane, let’s go home,” he says, voice steady on the surface.

They walk back in this fashion, people in cars and underneath umbrellas looking at them like they’re insane, which they are, but they’re in high school and they don’t care too much about logistics. Changmin gets yelled at by his mom and has to stuff newspapers into his soggy sneakers later, but it’s worth it.

\---

“Ey,” Changmin says, barging into Chanhee’s house. “Can I come over?”

“I don’t think my answer to that matters,” Chanhee says, rolling his eyes. “You’re already here.”

Chanhee’s house is a while away, but Changmin’s parents let him bike over because they think Chanhee is a good influence on him. This is probably true, although if they knew the full extent of Chanhee’s influence over him, they’d probably be horrified instead.

Whatever.

“I like studying over here,” Changmin protests. “I’m more productive.”

“You’re never productive,” Chanhee retorts, and Changmin swings his backpack at Chanhee’s shoulder. Chanhee ducks.

_Chanhee_ is legitimately busy. It’s April, which means that finals are a couple months away, but Chanhee is in AP classes. Time works differently over there. It’s stressful all year round; every day is test day.

“What are you studying for?” Changmin asks.

“Lit,” Chanhee says, pulling a face. “Gross.”

“I mean, you should suffer in at least _one_ subject,” Changmin says. Because Chanhee is good at everything else— math is easy for him, and history and science provide not much more of a challenge when one is that talented in rote memorization.

“I will throw this book at your head,” Chanhee says, threat empty as always. “Anyway, what are _you_ here to do?”

“Distract you,” Changmin says teasingly, but the joke doesn’t fly as well as he’d hoped, landing heavier than he intended. He quickly adds, “Math. Which, can you help me with?”

Chanhee shrugs. “I’ll try, I don’t remember anything.”

This proves to be incorrect, as Changmin goes through his worksheet and Chanhee clarifies anything he’s confused on. Changmin still doesn’t really get limits, but Chanhee’s shortcuts help. “With calc, the important part is to fake it. None of it is really understandable,” Chanhee advises.

And Changmin actually gets stuff done, Chanhee’s ‘brain’ playlist going off in the background.

“My mom thinks I’m going to go deaf listening to music all the time,” Chanhee says. “And my dad thinks I can’t focus.”

“That’s relatable,” Changmin says. He doesn’t even have Chanhee’s pretense of brain music— he’ll do his homework mouthing along the lyrics to rap, which may account for his less than stellar grades, but if he didn’t have the music going, he wouldn’t do homework at all. So, pick your poison.

Half an hour later, Chanhee slams his book shut. “I give up.”

“Nice, I’m usually the one to break first,” Changmin says. But if Chanhee’s taking a break, so will he. “What do you wanna do, then?”

“I…” Chanhee says, expression guilty.

Changmin is immediately fascinated, mind immediately going all sorts of places, none of which are probably correct. “You what?”

“... May have developed,” Chanhee continues, excruciatingly slow. “A... tetris obsession.”

Changmin busts his gut laughing. “I’m sorry, what? That’s so lame!”

“Okay, you know what, Kevin and I versed each other on the way to conference—” Changmin laughs harder “— and it’s _addicting_ , okay? And I still can’t beat him, it’s fucking annoying—”

“Well, yeah, he’s Kevin,” Changmin says, once he’s calmed down. “But what?”

“You know what, I’ll play you, then,” Chanhee says. “Let’s go.”

Changmin snorts. “Alright.”

Thirty minutes later, the two of them are still at it, and Changmin’s hands are skittish from where he’s trying to anticipate the next block, eyes glued to the screen. Chanhee is really good at this. Changmin still hasn’t been able to beat him, but maybe this time— nope. The screen fills up, and Changmin hisses in frustration, demanding one more round.

“I told you,” Chanhee says, smug. “It’s like cocaine. Except slightly less bad for you.”

“You know what, I’ll beat you next time—” Changmin mutters. He sighs, shuts his phone off. “ _Someday_.”

They do homework for another hour, significantly less productive than they were the first time, and Changmin cracks like usual, going over to play Chanhee’s piano. This is probably the real reason Changmin likes going over to Chanhee’s house, sans Chanhee himself, because the Choi household has a baby grand, and it’s amazing. Halfway through a song, Changmin realizes that the piano keys kind of fit together like tetris blocks, and he stops playing to complain to Chanhee about this thought.

\---

Chanhee’s usually not the one that comes over to Changmin’s, but he’s done it a couple of times.

It’s kind of funny, how Chanhee will stand at the door and greet Changmin’s parents all awkwardly, in stilted Korean, like he’s trying to impress them. Chanhee has admitted once that he’d probably come over more if he knew Changmin’s parents weren’t there, staunchly ignoring Changmin’s reassurances that he shouldn’t worry, what the hell.

So Chanhee coming over is a weird thing, which leads to more weird things.

Music is blasting from Changmin’s phone, whole playlist on Shuffle. _Heart Shaker_ comes on, because Changmin likes Twice— Mina’s ballet skills had intrigued him, and then the music dragged him the rest of the way in.

And the way they’re positioned at the kitchen table, Changmin is on the left, and Chanhee is on the right, and since Changmin’s left-handed, his right hand is braced on the edge of the seat, the edge of the tablecloth brushing the skin. And then he feels Chanhee’s fingers wrap around around his, and Changmin nearly has a heart attack.

It’s fine, right? They’re touchy. Both of them are touchy people, it’s fine—

It’s ten minutes until Chanhee lets go, and Changmin is _so confused_.

\---

Prom is a thing.

Changmin hadn’t really worried about it until now, because only now is he a junior, and he didn’t care about this stuff until suddenly he was surrounded by promposals and ads and ticket sales. A dress shop emails him about a bra fitting. He’s kind of confused on that one.

“I hate prom,” Sangyeon says despondently. He’s president of student council, so Changmin understands.

“Why are they here?” Sunwoo asks, walking over, gesturing to Kevin, Chanhee, and Changmin, who aren’t part of student council.

“Kevin’s here to help with the posters and Chanhee’s here to crunch numbers, I had to buy pizza for the entirety of math team to steal them,” Sangyeon groans, dead-eyed. “And Changmin’s here for moral support.”

“Woo,” Changmin says, to clarify.

“Alright,” Sunwoo says, clearly amused. “Yo, Jacob, can you pass me the tinsel—”

Jacob is up on a step ladder, threading ribbons through the ceiling tiles. “Gimme a sec,” he calls, and three seconds later, tinsel comes flying through the air.

Jacob’s not part of student council either, but he’s nice enough to help. Changmin has a theory the senior is secretly an angel who came to earth for the Cap n’ Crunch.

“Thank you!” Sunwoo calls, catching it, and walks away.

Even now, Changmin doesn’t really care about prom. A tuxedo would hamper him from dancing, and the tickets and food are overpriced. And he doesn’t want to take anyone, except for maybe, well— nevermind— so he’s not too excited. But he’s going, because of the principle of it.

“Kevin, you taking anyone to prom?” Jacob asks, from the ladder.

Kevin shakes his head. “No.”

“Aw, you’re breaking the whole school’s heart,” Changmin teases.

Kevin goes red, and he pulls out his earbuds. If Changmin listens closely, the tinny sound that emits from them might be to the beat of _Bad Romance_. “Don’t you have places to be, Changmin?”

Changmin just laughs.

The thing is, Kevin is good at everything and has a great personality on top of it, so a lot of people like him, or at least, the idealized version of him. Currently, he’s rivaling Picasso with the posters he’s making, even though they’re on unevenly cut paper and he’s using the bought-in-bulk, dried-out paint that the school supplies. Changmin honestly does not understand how this guy exists.

“Come get pizza with us, then, before it,” Changmin says. “Five star pizza. Super cheap.”

Kevin’s face breaks out into a smile. “That’s an offer I’ll take.”

“Guys, you hear that, Kevin accepted my promposal,” Changmin cheers, and Chanhee’s eyes snap open from where he’s crunching numbers.

“You’re taking Kevin to prom?” Chanhee asks.

“Absolutely not,” Kevin says hastily. Chanhee frowns.

“I lost my place,” he says, glaring at Changmin.

“Sorry for interrupting the program,” Changmin says, and pretends to press a button on top of Chanhee’s head. “Reboot. Restarting calculator app…”

Chanhee swats his hand away.

But Changmin is someone designed more to help prom preparations than to actually attend, too— he’s got no interest in king/queen politics, and the whole thing seems overhyped. At least he doesn’t have to reject people, like Kevin does. It doesn’t even boost Kevin’s ego or anything. All it does is make Kevin feel guilty.

Chanhee doesn’t seem to be taking anyone either, which is a fact Changmin will not admit he takes solace in. Which, prom takes a toll on Chanhee in a different way than it does Kevin. Chanhee’s other job is at a flower shop, and while he usually does his homework there, this isn’t something he gets away with during prom season. At least it’s not the week before Valentine’s Day.

Saturday, the two of them are in the Flower Shack, and Changmin helps as best he can, which isn’t much, but at least he can snip ribbons and give tape when needed.

“Are you going to prom?” Changmin asks, voice deceptively idle.

Chanhee’s head snaps up from where he’s putting together a bouquet. “Why do you ask?”

And there’s this moment when Changmin thinks that maybe Chanhee’s expecting him to ask, but Chanhee can’t possibly like this stuff, right, not when his hands are already nicked up from miscellaneous thorns and he’d spent a good hour totalling up other people’s ticket prices. And also, Changmin is well— _Changmin_. So, no.

“No reason.”

One beat. Two. Chanhee sighs. “Yeah, I am.”

Prom night is okay. Changmin eats pizza with Younghoon, Hyunjae, Juyeon, Kevin, and Chanhee beforehand, and then at the actual prom he ducks out of pictures, takes off his dress shoes, and jams out to the music as best he can. He rejects an after party invitation, tired in a way that’s more than physical, and goes home with pieces of tinsel stuck in his soles and wondering whether Chanhee had fun dancing with that other guy.

\---

On Valentine’s Day, Changmin had handed a bunch of people chocolate roses.

His mom had bought ten of them at Walmart because there was a sale, the chocolate hollowed out and the plastic stems bent, but Changmin’s not the kind to be bitter because he’s single. Valentine’s Day is great— the internet produces specialized memes for the day, and some of his teachers hand out candy.

Changmin has no secret admirers. He doesn’t expect anything else.

But he’s a little nervous handing Chanhee the chocolate rose, even though he’s given them to so many other people. “V-day is for the food,” he says, because he needs to explain himself.

Chanhee smiles, taking the rose. “Amen. Our history teacher gave us Skittles.”

“Please share?”

“I saved the grape ones for you.”

When Changmin opens his locker that day, though— his locker is placed in the most inconvenient place possible, so he can only visit during lunch— there’s a rose. An actual rose. Changmin will joke that roses die quickly, edible ones are better, but a warmth floods his body as he takes it by the stem and stares at the bright red petals. He can’t quell the immediate hope that it’s from Chanhee, plucking a stray flower out of a Valentine’s Day bouquet, and slipping it into his locker.

\---

After prom is AP testing, finals, and college applications.

Changmin is significantly less stressed than most of his other friends. He hangs out more with Hyunjae than anyone else for the month of May, because Hyunjae is the only other guy in their friend group that didn’t take a Harvard-hopeful courseload. Changmin is highly grateful.

“You guys are so lucky,” Hyunjoon grumbles, at one of their dance practices.

Hyunjae rolls his eyes. “Your fault for stressing yourself out so badly as a _sophomore_.”

Hyunjoon just whines, and rolls over. Hyunjae catches Changmin’s eye— _can you believe this kid_? And actually, Changmin can. Chanhee was also kind of like this last year.

“I’ll just stay as a freshman forever,” Eric says, terrified.

“You probably will,” Juyeon says, and it takes five seconds for Eric to register the insult. His resounding _hey_ is drowned out by Juyeon continuing, “seriously, everything sucks— my appendix exploded at the wrong time.”

“Maybe one of your other organs will fail you?” Haknyeon suggests.

“Hopefully,” Juyeon says, disdainfully. “And in time for the AP Physics test.”

It’s definitely something, watching as Kevin’s polished exterior crumbles, walking out of the AP Calc test muttering something about escalators, and Younghoon come out of AP Physics, telling Changmin that he can no longer eat bread. Changmin is torn between laughing and wanting to call 911 at the second one.

But Changmin is most worried about Chanhee. The thing is, Chanhee doesn’t smile as easily as Changmin does, but when Chanhee does, it’s genuine. Now his smiles are less genuine, and less often. It’s a week before finals, and Changmin barely sees Chanhee, who’s either working at his part-time jobs or buried in a textbook.

Changmin himself isn’t too stressed out. He’ll study, but not that much. He’s okay with Bs. So it feels like he has too much time on his hands, too much space. Math team has ended, so Changmin doesn’t even get bus Wednesdays anymore. The normal schedule places them on different buses.

Changmin fires off a text: _Hey, can i come over?_

He doesn’t expect a reply, but he gets one. _Sure_

Changmin doesn’t bother responding, just gets on his bike and pedals. The fact he’s the youngest in his grade disqualified him from most driver’s ed programs, which he’s fine with— who needs gas pollution, anyway.

Chanhee opens the door a minute after Changmin presses the bell. “Hey,” he greets, hands in his pockets.

He looks like he’s running on half power. Changmin doesn’t like it.

“Hi,” Changmin says. “You in the middle of anything?”

Chanhee laughs dryly. “I’d love to say I am, but I’m not getting anything done,” he says. His eyes are far-off.

“You? Not getting anything done? Impossible.”

But it soon becomes clear that Chanhee _really_ isn’t getting anything done— there’s a huge pile of papers on his desk, and he doesn’t really seem to be able to focus on any one thing. at a time. “AP tests broke me,” Chanhee claims, and Changmin silently curses the government from where he’s sitting, cross-legged, on the bed.

Chanhee’s not even listening to his brain music playlist.

“Alright, dude, come here, take a break,” Changmin says, when it becomes unbearable to watch, and Chanhee surprisingly does, walking to lie on the floor next to where Changmin’s sprawled. “Hey, you got this. Two more weeks and school’s out.”

“I don’t think I can last two more weeks,” Chanhee mutters. “And then I’ve got summer classes.”

Changmin doesn’t know what to say to that. He finally settles on, “AAPC, am I right?”

It’s an acronym they came up with. Asian-American Pressure Cooker. It doesn’t really apply to Changmin, who broke the cooker along with his parents’ hopes and dreams a while ago, but that’s what people like Chanhee and Kevin are subjected to.

Chanhee is oddly silent, and then: “Gay-Lussac’s Law states that as pressure goes up, so does temperature—”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Changmin whines, “I _hate_ you.”

“I just—” Chanhee props himself up on his elbows, and quietly admits “— I hate feeling like I’m not good enough.”

Changmin’s always astounded whenever stuff like that comes out of Chanhee’s mouth.

Because on a conscious level, he knows that Chanhee’s got the same doubts as he does, because self-perception is a skewed thing, but— Chanhee _shouldn’t_ think shit like that about himself. It’s like when Kevin complains he’s talentless. Changmin isn’t quite sure how to convey that stuff, though.

They never talk about anything serious. Changmin isn’t good with words. But now, words are required.

“You’re good enough,” Changmin starts, then tries again. “You’re _more_ than good enough. School can piss off, listen to me. You don’t even know how amazing—”

And then Changmin shuts up, but not of his own accord.

He shuts up because Chanhee kisses him. _Surprised_ doesn’t even cut how the hell Changmin feels about that. It’s awkward, because it’s unplanned, and they haven’t exactly been in this position before, but a warmth blooms in Changmin’s chest. Holy shit, Chanhee kissed him. _Is_ kissing him.

Afterward, Changmin’s hands shake as he pretends to read his textbook. They don’t talk about it.

He’s not quite sure if the kiss distracts or motivates him for his finals, but he gets through the last week of school somehow, pinching himself whenever his thoughts drift away from the scantron and to the scenario on the bedroom floor. Jesus Christ, couldn’t he have a crisis at a more _convenient_ time?

\---

And no, something like this has not happened before. Changmin is not _that_ dense.

It’s a one time thing. Chanhee probably kissed him platonically? As a gesture of thanks? Because finals were messing with his mind? Yeah.

\---

School ends.

The air is swollen with heat. Changmin spends his days at the dance studio, sweating in a badly air conditioned room, versing and losing to Younghoon on video games, and carefully compiling a summer playlist then never listening to it.

Their town has a local festival for the month of June, and their dance studio is partaking in its showcase, which Changmin looks forward to.

The festival takes place on the town square, the edges spilling out into the nearby streets. Changmin’s glad he biked— Hyunjae comes over grumbling that finding a parking spot here should be considered an extreme sport. Haknyeon reports cheerfully that at least five cars beeped their horn at them, two people rolled their windows down and swore, and that one of the cars contained a _dog_.

The showcase happens at seven. Changmin changes into his stage outfit and holds his fist out to Hyunjoon, who’s in a different act.

“Break a leg out there,” he says. “And don’t have your appendix explode.”

Juyeon overhears this and offers Changmin the middle finger.

Eric is bouncing around, and Changmin can’t tell if it’s out of pre-performance anxiety or if it’s just Eric being Eric. No matter, Eric will do well onstage. However many freshman jokes they make about him, none of them underestimate his dance prowess.

And no one underestimates Changmin’s, either.

When Changmin’s onstage, he isn’t that weird kid who laughs at anything and isn’t as strong in academia as everyone else he knows. He’s powerful. All the practice pays off. His heartbeat switches to pulse with the music, his body moves seamlessly to the choreography, and energy flows through him and out of him in waves. He disregards the audience, although somewhere inside him, he draws strength from the fact they’re watching.

When the last note fades, the music shifts to applause.

Changmin bows and exits for the next act to start, switching out of his stage outfit and into his normal clothes. Hyunjoon holds his hand out for a high-five.

“Don’t forget me when you’re famous,” Hyunjoon says. “Or…  I’ll sell merchandise of you making weird expressions.”

Changmin rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to be famous, and you’d do that anyway.”

Hyunjoon shrugs, silently acquising.

\---

Changmin walks out from backstage onto the plaza. The festival’s atmosphere is nice— he has no idea what they’re celebrating, probably no one has any idea what they’re celebrating, maybe the start of summer? But Changmin is all for it. The sky’s the shade between afternoon blue and night darkness, and the air is still summery without the relentless sun beating down his neck.

“Hey.”

It’s Chanhee. He’s wearing a gray hoodie on top of his shorts, probably not even sweating. Changmin won’t question it.

“Hey,” Changmin says. He wants to ask if Chanhee watched him.

“You were good up there,” Chanhee says. And then, with a wry smile, “Although you probably know that already.”

Changmin shrugs, hiding his pleased smile, although it’s probably obvious. “Still nice to hear it.”

Chanhee rolls his eyes, and offers Changmin water. “The stuff here is so overpriced, I should’ve bought some of my own,” Chanhee laments.

Changmin accepts it gratefully, reminding himself to take small sips, as he also hasn’t thought to bring water, and this is all he’ll have for the night. Music blasts around the plaza, stuff from the top 40s, and there are people everywhere. There’s also rides. A huge ferris wheel rises into the night.

But Chanhee’s not pointing to the ferris wheel, but rather to the Fireball. “Let’s go on _that_ ,” he says, eyes glinting.

The Fireball is a giant loop that flips people upside down at the top, the prime example of physics at its extreme, and Changmin is terrified. But he’s also not going to back down from a dare; unfortunately, he doesn’t even get a chance to respond.

“Hey,” someone says, and Changmin turns around. It’s Sunwoo. “You two together?”

It’s probably a sign of how much finals has fried Changmin’s brain— even two weeks later— that he badly misinterprets this.

Out of all of them, Changmin probably knows Sunwoo the least, but he knows that Sunwoo is the only one out of all of them that’s openly gay. Chanhee once said, when he was drunk, that he was probably bisexual, and never spoke of it again; while Changmin is— he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think about these things. But he’s probably not completely straight.

Proven by the fact his brain immediately says, _yes, he’s mine_.

But that doesn’t come out of Changmin’s mouth, thankfully. His mind is not that traitorous. He’s suddenly swallowed by the overwhelming realization that Chanhee is not his. And Sunwoo’s more mature than Changmin despite being a year younger than him.

“No,” Changmin says, instead. He misses the odd look Chanhee gives him, too busy staring at the stone tiling on the ground.

It’s like he’s back in freshman year, and Chanhee isn’t Chanhee, but _New_ , the addition to their friend group that seemed impossibly cool. And Changmin felt awkward talking to him, like he was trying to take something that wasn’t his.

He hasn’t viewed Chanhee in that sort of light in a long time, but suddenly Changmin is reminded that Chanhee isn’t just his nerd friend, but a seventeen year old guy who’s objectively pretty good-looking and sports a _tattoo_ on his pinkie. (Chanhee had only gotten drunk _once_ , but it’d been enough.) And Chanhee is sixteen and weird and plain off-stage.

“Okay, well, can I hang out with you, then?” Sunwoo asks.

Sunwoo is, unfortunately, looking at Chanhee as he says this, so Changmin, in his state of panic, manages misinterpret the situation even further.

“Yes, of course,” he blurts out, smiling.

A few months ago, Chanhee had told him it takes over a dozen muscles to smile. This is really occurring to him now. It feels like his mouth is working to maintain a chin-up. And once the words are out and his smile has slipped, he takes off.

Changmin’s a good block away when the scenario replays in his head. He takes a hasty sip of water, refusing to dwell on it. Twenty minutes later, he runs into Hyunjoon. Changmin brightens, seeing his friend, although his smile disappears when he sees Hyunjoon’s dark expression. Even his (numerous) earrings seem to dangle in a disappointed manner.

“Are Sunwoo and Chanhee on a date?” Hyunjoon asks, incredulous.

Changmin shrugs. “I wouldn’t know?”

“What do you mean, you don’t know, I thought you and Chanhee were a thing?”

Changmin has multiple reactions to this. One is slight happiness that Hyunjoon would assume such a thing, another is terror— do they really act like that? Why has no one else told him that? Do his _parents_ think that? — but mostly, it’s dejection, because no. They’re not a thing.

“We’re not a thing,” he tells Hyunjoon.

“Okay, then, are _they_ a thing?” Hyunjoon asks.

And suddenly, Changmin gets it. He’s not that dumb.

“You like Sunwoo?” he asks incredulously, and Hyunjoon’s whole face goes red.

_Well, you learn something new everyday,_ Changmin thinks.

And although Changmin’s got no answer to whether Sunwoo and Chanhee are a thing— he has a sneaking suspicion that they’re not, and he might have just read the situation wrong, he realizes something. He doesn’t want Chanhee to be a thing with someone else. And when it’s spelled out for him like that, he realizes that he’s not that dumb, he’s _really_ dumb. At least he’s figured it out now, better late than never. He was never just going to be just friends with Chanhee.

\---

Changmin’s going to be a senior next year.

He realizes this when it’s 2 AM and he can’t sleep, mind running two million miles per hour on whatever the mental equivalent of red bull is. At first, it’s a strange thought — it’s the first time this occurred to him, since previously he was just happy with the fact that he survived junior year.

But he’s going to be a _senior_ next year.

And maybe he doesn’t want to spend the last year of high school pining for someone, because that’s plain depressing, so he makes a deal with himself. He’ll regret it when it’s broad daylight and his brain is back on its normal track; it’s always easier to be a little braver with the lights off, but a deal’s a deal. Even if no one else heard it.

_let’s go to the pool_ , Chanhee texts him.

That’s such a weird, non-Chanhee suggestion. Changmin is about to ask if Chanhee is alright before Chanhee adds, _It was kevin’s idea. but then Kevin ditched and im bored and i already paid the entrance fee._

Changmin can’t help the slight smile that rises to his face, imagining Chanhee texting him from the shade of one of the crooked beach umbrellas (their local pool isn’t high-class), wearing a petulant frown. _I’ll be there in ten minutes._ He calls out to his mom that he’s going to the pool and gets on his bike.

At this point, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to learn to drive. He can bike basically anywhere.

When he gets to the pool, he ends up finding Chanhee in the sandbox, dressed in non-swimming attire and building an elaborate sand castle. Or at least, as elaborate as it can get when the sandbox is so shallow and the material is not exactly appropriate for erecting the next Taj Mahal.

Chanhee doesn’t even look up from where he’s sculpting one of the towers. “Hey.”

The sand is cool underneath Changmin’s feet. “Hey,” he says, and takes a seat next to Chanhee.

They’re a strange sight, two fully-clothed teenage boys at the pool, sitting in a sandbox designed for six-year-olds that’s empty save for a wooden horse and a fountain that spurts out water in even intervals. Changmin’s not going to try and help Chanhee build the actual castle, since Changmin’s never had good luck with sand sculptures, but he drags his hand in the sand to create a moat and occasionally throws some sand on Chanhee’s legs.

“Why’d you come to the pool if you were just going to do this?” Changmin asks.

“Because Kevin is persuasive and managed to forget he had a college interview,” Chanhee groans. “The sandbox is the best part of the entire pool, you know.”

“What about the actual, you know, pool?”

“Kids pee in it and couples make out in it, I’ll swim somewhere else,” Chanhee says, and Changmin laughs. He’s got a point. “And the concessions are overpriced.”

“That they are. But they’re good.”

“Eh, you’re right. Let’s get ice cream after this, then.”

And Changmin blurts out, “Chanhee, I like you.”

Why does he say it then? Well— Chanhee’s logic is cute, and _Chanhee_ is cute, sunlight illuminating his face and sand over his shins, and if this is the last moment that Changmin gets without their relationship being marred by rejection and disgust, then it’s as good as any.

Chanhee stills. “You— what,” he says.

“I like you? Not in a friend way?” Changmin tries. “Do you like me back, check yes or no?”

For a horrifying few moments, Chanhee still doesn’t say or do anything, but then he pushes the entirety of the sand castle onto Changmin, a good half hour of work destroyed in a second. Most of it didn’t even get on Changmin, but he’s too astounded to say anything about that right now.

“You’re so _dumb_ ,” Chanhee says, voice cracking. “You are so fucking stupid.”

Okay. Well. “Uh.”

“Do I really not make it obvious?” Chanhee asks. “Changmin, I _kissed you_ , of course I like you— actually, no, I don’t. You’re an idiot. You’re such a fucking idiot—”

And Chanhee shuts up, but not of his own accord.

Chanhee tastes faintly like sand and chlorine when Changmin kisses him, although they don’t make out, because both of them are against anyone who makes out at the pool, even if it’s in the sandbox. They do get ice cream later, at Baskin Robbins, which isn’t that overpriced, and Changmin feels slightly lightheaded when he realizes that he’s allowed to call this a date now.

\---

“The cat’s alive,” Changmin reports to Younghoon.

Younghoon raises a confused eyebrow. “Good to know?”

“Chanhee’s my boyfriend,” Changmin says, and can’t help the dumb smile that overtakes his mouth.

Younghoon slams his head against the table. “Bless,” he wheezes, rubbing his forehead. “You _finally_ got your shit together.”

Changmin can’t even bring himself to be offended. Younghoon has got a point.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by me being dense 
> 
> please forgive me for characterization mistakes, im very new to the boyz (to the point where i was watching intro videos while writing this). this fic is highly self-indulgent, it's my celebration for the end of driver's ed and kick-off to semester two of summer school suffering and a break from this awful sci-fi au anyway. i hope u liked ~~


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